personal essay: erin brosey
2020 Hearing
It’s hard to describe the past year, the challenges, the changes except in sound. I live next to the Financial District in San Francisco with the whirr of the cable car, the chimes of its bells, and the incessant white noise of the cable. Tourists whoop as the Big Busses and cable cars tip down the hill. They call to each other in offense and disbelief as the hill they’re climbing becomes steeper. Drunk revelers can be heard from nearby hotels and clubs, music pulsing and excitement humming.
The day the city shut down, March 16th, the sound stopped. The hush was only interrupted by sirens and the miraculous sound of birdsong bouncing off of buildings. Their springtime chatter reverberated over and over, filling the empty canyons of buildings. Inside my apartment, there were the sounds of confused whines from my dog and chatter from my cat as if to ask why I wasn’t leaving, why time had stopped. Then there was the sound arguing that inevitably comes from anxiety and living with a husband, a cat, and a dog in 490 square feet in constant uncertainty. Then the sound of peace on the streets, empty of people, the hub of business turned into a veritable neighborhood where I could look both ways before crossing four lanes of absent traffic.
There was the sound of supportive friendship through my computer speakers and phone, the sound of my own voice multiplied back at me from errant zoom calls, and the laughter that only comes from loving someone so completely. There was also silence, heavy in the absence of words and the absence of humming external life. The sound of the words, “Maybe next month or the month after that.” The sound of my keyboard clacking and my thoughts churning. The sound of pencil on paper as I filled up a journal with my thoughts and fears. The sound of relationships breaking and remaking. There was the sound of revolution met with hate, the sound of frustration vibrating in my throat next to the anguish of despair. The sound of celebration, pots banging, bottles chiming, shouts of joy and clapping as the election results rolled in. I never knew those objects could convey the sound of hope and joy and relief.
In March of 2021, some old sounds started to return. I started to wait at red lights again before continuing my runs. I started to turn up the volume on my headphones. Now as the cable hums outside my window, I think of the quiet street and the bird song, the sounds of revolution and revelation, and the sound of my heart breaking and remaking.
about the writer: erin brosey
Erin Brosey is a fantasy author and poet living in San Francisco. She is currently working on her first novel. She has several poems self-published on Vocal. Her Instagram has very little to do with writing but does have a dog, a cat, and a lot of sourdough bread.
